


The work of thy hands

by fera_festiva



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-18
Updated: 2009-05-18
Packaged: 2017-11-07 19:46:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/434691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fera_festiva/pseuds/fera_festiva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I was thinking more of having my wicked way with you, right here by the side of the lake."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The work of thy hands

It's one of those evenings that ought to be an ordinary one, but there's sunshine, and a faint haze, and even this far north and this early in the year the evening is deliciously warm for the first time since last summer, and there are sparks in the air. On the far side of the lake, two boys sit propped on their elbows, sleeves pushed up, feet all but dangling in the water. One holds a hand-rolled cigarette from which he occasionally inhales. The other ignores the book he brought outside with him, intending to use it for revision but finding the sun in his eyes and the presence of the first boy distracting enough not to bother.

"Lucky we got out of that detention," Remus remarks.

"Yeah, I can't believe we got away with it," Sirius smirks. "Still, not our fault those two didn't run when you yelled."

"No, I don't just mean that," Remus murmurs, rolling onto his side to face Sirius, staring at the grass, pulling tufts of it out absentmindedly. "I mean it's good James and Peter aren't here, because it gives me the perfect opportunity to do something I've wanted to do for ages."

"Oh yeah? Got something planned?" Sirius says. His mind's already wandering off, and he finds himself admiring Remus's tendency to be the brains of the outfit - while he and James consider booby-trapping the Slytherin common room with dungbombs to be a worthwhile evening's entertainment, Remus can generally be counted on to come up with something much cleverer and considerably more interesting.

"Hmm. You could say that, I suppose," Remus says, finally meeting Sirius's eyes, though squinting against the low sunshine. "I was thinking more of having my wicked way with you, right here by the side of the lake."

Sirius breathes in sharply through his teeth, despite himself. He still has trouble believing his luck; before these encounters, this whole thing, with Remus started, in those rare moments when he'd admitted to himself what he wanted, he'd only ever imagined that Remus would be shy or hesitant, if not outright opposed to the whole thing - indeed, Remus's reluctance had been the perfect excuse for not making an advance for a long time. Turns out that Remus Lupin is the most wanton, debauched 17-year-old werewolf this side of purgatory.

In any case, tempting though the proposition is, something occurs to Sirius. "You're not going to, though, Moony," he says, "because we're outside and anyone could see us." For all his bravado and flirtatiousness, Sirius Black is _not_ prepared to put on a show for anyone who might be watching.

"Oh. Yes, you're right - I probably wouldn't," Remus replies vaguely, and as he does, he trails the tips of his long, philosophical fingers languidly across Sirius's hipbone. Sirius trembles, utterly involuntarily, and manages, "Moony, please, not here," through the haze of cloudy arousal already muffling his brain.

"What's the matter?" The backs of Remus's fingers wander along and back again, then across the flat of Sirius's belly, then down the side of his hip, then to a very specific spot on his inner thigh that, when touched, rarely fails to produce a very specific _reaction_.

"Please, Remus, someone'll see," Sirius hisses, although what comes out of his mouth is about a million times less assertive, and a million times more seductive, than he had intended. He can't help but feel just a little bit ashamed of himself - the way Remus can touch him so gently, make only the vaguest of suggestions, and already he's blushing like a girl, gasping for breath, and rock hard. Remus appears to have noticed this too; his fingers lift gently away to allow the heel of his hand to slide up again and to graze the tip of Sirius's cock through his trousers, and Sirius is sure he was about to say something but it disappears into a kind of silent stifled scream. His eyelids slide shut. He feels hot and swollen all over, his body already clamouring for release.

Remus's hands quickly and roughly undo Sirius's trousers and Sirius grabs vaguely at his wrists in a feeble protest, but within moments has given up altogether because Remus's hand is sliding, cool fingers first, under the waistband of Sirius's underwear and wrapping itself firmly around his cock.

Sirius gasps again, utterly involuntarily, and were his mind not so tied up with other matters he'd curse himself for being such a swooning romantic heroine about it, but as it is he can barely think at all because Remus is stroking him deliciously slowly, gently but firmly, then a little faster, then slowing again, and then oh god that thing where his hand _twists..._

Sirius finds most parts of Remus fairly irresistible - his mouth, for instance, which is warm and soft and also rather bitey; and the scars across his torso that Remus hates but Sirius wants to eat up; and his arse, which Sirius has to remind himself not to stare at for too long, lest he gives away their brilliant, beautiful secret. But best of all, Sirius thinks, are these hands - they are long and cool and nimble and are capable of teasing truly incredible reactions from him - like now, as one squeezes gently in little circles while the other strokes up and down. Sirius's own hands are balled into fists on the grass by his sides, and his eyes are screwed tight shut and he bites down on his lip because it feels so good but still, what if someone happens to glance across the lake and of course they'll know exactly what the two boys are doing. "Please, Moony," he whispers again, although he's no longer sure what he's begging for - surely he doesn't mean for Remus to stop, because that – that would be so so wrong, he doesn't want this to stop ever –

He bites his lower lip as he feels a familiar heat starting to build, and thrusts shallowly into Remus's hand - but then suddenly Remus's hand isn't there any more. Sirius moans, unable now to even string together enough syllables to articulate what that does to him (though it's something like "Moony, what the hell are you doing, please please get your incredible hands back on me right now because I'm so close and if you don't make me come soon I think I'll die or pass out or catch fire"). He opens one eye, squinting against the sun, and sees Remus sitting back on his heels, glancing around at any of the places other students might be sitting to enjoy the evening's warmth. He looks back at Sirius and grins, that hidden wicked streak shining through more clearly than ever.

"Now, Sirius," he says, slowly and carefully, "I am about to do something very dangerous, and it might shock you, so you must promise me you won't make any noise." Sirius can only whimper and nod and curse himself again for letting anyone - even someone he wants so much - reduce him to the melting, desperate, bee-stung creature he's become; hot candlewax under Remus's brilliant fingers - fingers which have just hooked themselves into the belt-loops of Sirius's trousers, and now Remus is yanking them down over Sirius's hips and oh god, lowering his mouth -

At the first - the very first - touch of his lips, Sirius yelps, and Remus's mouth slides off him so he can look up and whisper, "Now, Sirius, you were the one so worried about being seen, so be quiet or I'm not going to go on". At this, and with a lopsided, mischievous smile, he lowers himself once more, swirling his tongue in a lazy, firm spiral around the head of Sirius's cock before taking the whole head into his mouth and deeply sucking on it.

It's all Sirius can do not to cry out again, but he settles for stuffing his fist into his mouth instead. His other hand, almost of its own accord, runs through Remus's hair, gripping it at the nape of his neck, letting go and grabbing again in sync with the rhythm of that expert mouth, lapping him into this exquisite, frustrated, torturous pleasure. When Remus uses his hands, it's good - it's so good - but this is like nothing he's ever experienced. He feels dizzy, and hot and cold at the same time, and his orgasm seems to be building not only in his cock but in the pit of his stomach and in his toes and behind his eyes. And now Remus's _teeth_ are grazing him - and it almost hurts, except nothing could be better - and now his tongue swirls around the head while his hand strokes in the opposite direction and Sirius arches his back, bucking his hips off the ground, and there is no longer any room in his brain for caring if anyone knows what they're doing and the light behind his eyelids is blinding and oh god -

"Don't worry, I've got it," Remus murmurs, a smile in his voice, and cleans up with a charm or two. Sirius barely registers it. He’s oblivious now except to the pounding of blood in his ears, and a handful of very distant voices. And in any case, they are a million miles away, across an ocean of sunlight seeping in under his heavy eyelids, and beyond the warmth of the evening; they pale in significance to so many unfinished cigarettes, and the books Remus will never get around to reading, and the hands that hold them.


End file.
